


Sunrise

by SylvanWitch



Series: Seasons [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 18:47:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanWitch/pseuds/SylvanWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part three of the <i>Seasons</i> series, this one focuses on Spring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunrise

It was raining, a dim green mist, constant but not bothersome, and it felt good on Sam’s skin, which was otherwise hot from the hunt and subsequent fire.

 

The wide boles of the old growth trees around them were hulking shadows in the pre-dawn dark, a dim grey line just growing in the eastern sky ahead of them as they walked, heads down, shoulders hunched, taking it slow.

 

The path was slick with snowmelt and old leaves, the air rich with decay leading to new life, the smell of green promise that filled the air in the forest on mornings like this one.

 

Early spring.

 

In between the dark knees of enormous roots, he could see crocuses opening their white petals, so many fallen stars in the gloaming.  He wanted to sit down beside them, maybe watch them for awhile.  He was so tired.

 

Beside him, Dean stumbled, muttered a curse under his breath, settled the duffle more firmly on his shoulder, and kept going, leaving the upturned leaves from his dragging feet as a testament to his exhaustion.

 

Sam bumped into Dean, knowing that was all it would take to set his brother stumbling again, off-course, careering gently into a tree and stopping, back against the bark, legs splayed a little wide to stay upright.  Dean let the duffle slide to the forest floor.

 

Sam dropped the sawed off—he knew it was empty, didn’t care a damn about dirt in the barrel—and moved right into his brother’s space.

 

One broad palm wiped moisture off of Dean’s sharp cheek, traced the dampness across his lower lip until his brother parted his mouth and licked the thumb.

 

Sam’s inhale was audible in the stillness of morning waiting to break.

 

Letting his head fall back against the tree, Dean let his lids fall half-way, looked up at Sam from beneath his lashes and deliberately drew that luscious lower lip into his mouth.

 

Coy didn’t usually work for Dean.

 

Usually.

 

Sam let his thigh rise between his brother’s, rubbing against Dean’s obvious erection through the damp denim.

 

He ghosted a warm and breathing kiss across Dean’s forehead, leaned down to lick a line from the point of Dean’s chin to behind his left ear, and Dean moaned, half surrender, half something else.

 

“Sam,” he managed, voice gone to growling, the last shadows of night and the hunt there.

 

Sam leaned back up to look down at Dean, whose face, pale in the luminous new glow of the sun, made a map of constellations he could trace with his tongue forever and never run out of freckles.

 

Somewhere at their backs the spring peepers started their chirruping song.  A single songbird sang paeans to the morning fire, breaking the nearer silence.

 

Sam wanted to wait here forever, wet though he was and tired to the core.  Spreading his palm flat against his brother’s belly, Sam felt Dean’s heat, felt the taut muscles of his stomach contract as his brother breathed in.  Sam smelled Dean, too—sweat, and deep woods, and the remains of cremation—and wanted nothing more than to taste him on the back of his tongue.

 

Dean beat him to it, though, lounging upright and then dropping to his knees with the kind of grace Sam had rarely seen except in churches.  It was worship Dean began, then, making short work of Sam’s zipper, spreading the denim just enough to ease the aching weight of him from the confining fabric of his boxers.

 

Sam wanted to say, “Wait,” but instead, he wove his fingers through Dean’s hair, watched them make furrows of damp in the shining lines of light the sun created as it spilled through the trees right onto Dean, making a halo of his bent head.

 

All thoughts of holiness vanished as Dean swallowed Sam down, the heat of his mouth on his air-cooled shaft, the temptation of his tongue along the length of Sam, the way Dean knew to hollow his cheeks and suck the head up against the roof of his mouth, press of tongue on the underside, sweet friction of teeth blunted by lips against his sensitive skin.

 

A hot hand worked its way across his balls, paused on the fragile flesh just behind them, stroked there before dipping into the puckered bud.  Sam threw his head back and might have lost his balance had Dean not brought an arm up to brace him, and the feel of Dean’s hand on the back of his thigh, the rough calluses gentling him through the denim, the way he was embraced, even like this, even as Dean knelt at his feet, head down, made Sam feel like he was something greater than anything he’d ever imagined.

 

How had he missed this?  How had he not known that the only faith worth having was what Dean had always given him, denying Sam nothing but what would hurt him, offering always these ovations of flesh and pleasure?

 

Just before his eyes slid closed against the rising sun making fiery spires of the surrounding trees, Sam thought he saw something surrender itself to the sky.  He laughed, his breath catching in his chest, as Dean breached him with long fingers, and then stuttered his come down his brother’s open throat, knowing that it was as much a baptism as either of them ever needed.

 

He shuddered through his epiphany, tears coursing from the corners of his eyes, which he held tight-closed against a light he thought it wasn’t his time to see, and when Dean looked up, his brother was backlit by the new sun, ringed in a corona of bright blue, his face fallen into eclipse by the effect and the angle.

 

“Good morning,” Dean said, throat thick with his brother’s life.

 

Sam drifted a shaking hand over Dean’s head, paused to limn the softest skin of his eyelid, until Dean, too, had to close them, waiting.

 

“I love you,” Sam said, as much a prayer and promise as Dean was ever likely to hear.

 

He tightened his hand around the back of Sam’s thigh, let his head rest against his brother’s exposed abdomen, buried his nose in the soft hair that arrowed down to what was not his brother’s most precious part.

 

Lips to the base of his brother’s quiescent member, Dean said something, then, that was a word of god, but the thundering rush of a wood grouse taking flight drown it out, and only Sam heard it.

  


End file.
